


Various Discord Ficlets

by MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, And games played with them apparently, Angst, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Met Before The Fall (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley's Bodyswap (Good Omens), Aziraphale takes care of his books and Crowley pines, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley's goofy chain thingy, First Kiss, Getting Together, Halloween, Heaven's abuse, Ineffable Tutors (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Oranges, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Party Crashing, Pining, Rain, Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Scene: Globe Theatre 1601 (Good Omens), Swords, The Arrangement (Good Omens), The bookshop, and bookbinding, for the first drabble, hand holding, the inherent eroticism of cotton gloves, zero dialogue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24731149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: Various short little things that I've written in Discord for various things that have prompted me to do so xDI'm putting them here in case I want to expand on them later, which more than likely I will.Ratings will range from G to E and be notated on each individual ficlet <3
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Harriet Dowling/Thaddeus J. Dowling, Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Comments: 196
Kudos: 99





	1. Cotton Gloves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale mends his books, Crowley longs to be mended.
> 
> Rating: M

This had been a mistake.

Crowley had stopped by to take Aziraphale to lunch, but he’d been busy. Promised Crowley his time for an early dinner, just a bit to do first. Won’t be but two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he’d said.

How Crowley always ended up in these messes, he’d never know.

Aziraphale sits at his desk, an ancient book spread out in front of him. Unbound and undone. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbow, strong forearms on display. Muscle and tendon and bone, such very human things. Such unangelic things. Such very beautiful things.

But what had pushed him over were the gloves. White cotton. Soft and fitted custom to the angel’s elegantly manicured hands. He’d pulled them on slowly, sighing as he had. Sighing like coming home, like comfort. 

Crowley wants to be the one to make Aziraphale sigh like that.

He watches gentle hands ghost of the curve of ivory pages, tender and reverent. Watches Aziraphale pull things apart and stitch them back together. Feels heat pool in his stomach as he watches. Crowley knows he’s staring, Aziraphale knows he is, too.

Crowley wants to hold Aziraphale’s hands the way the gloves do, encompassing and gentle, made to fit. If any hands were ever meant to fit Aziraphale’s, Crowley hopes to whatever or whoever might be listening that they’re his. 

He wants to feel those hands. Wants them to ghost over the sharp angles of him the way the ghost over these pages. Wants to feel them on his face, on his body, on other things. Wants to be cared for the way Aziraphale cares for these books.

Crowley has never believed himself to be broken. Fallen, yes - broken, no. He is who he is. But as he sits here watching those bookbinder hands, watching them pause reverently over a bit of red foxing on one of the pages…he wants Aziraphale to take him in those hands. To remake him, to put him back together. To let him touch something of holiness, something of divinity.

The book closes with a loud snap. Crowley quickly schools his face into something resembling coolness. 

“Well, that’s enough for now,” Aziraphale says, turning to face him with that smile that lights up the dark recesses of what used to be Crowley’s heart, “so, what are you in the mood for now?”


	2. Mutual Stress Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1601, The morning before Hamlet. The Arrangement has lots of perks, even if both of them want more.
> 
> Rating: E

“Well, that was a thing,” Crowley says as he fumbles around Aziraphale’s room at the inn, picking up discarded clothing, thrown off the night before in a haze of pleasure.

“Yes, suppose it was.”Aziraphale makes no motion to move from the bed, content to lie there wrapped up in sheets, looking for all the world like his old robes on the wall in Eden.Crowley had longed to touch him even then.

The night before was a blur, as was this morning.They ended up here more and more these days.What had started as a means to slack off on their jobs had turned into what Aziraphale annoyingly referred to as “mutual stress relief”.

Crowley isn’t sure if it’s relief or if it just stresses him out more.

“Of course, you’ll have the good sense not to tell anyone about this?”Aziraphale says sheepishly from the bed.Looking for all the world the innocent angel.(Lord forget this morning as he’d fucked Crowley’s still slick hole.Or the night previous with his lips wrapped around a demon’s cock.Could fool anyone with the look he has now.)

“Yes, angel, I know the bloody ‘rulessss’.”He can’t keep the sibilant hiss out of his voice on that last one.Something here simmers below the surface, for both of them.Neither wants to say what that something is, to give it a name.

Names are powerful things.

Crowley pulls the last of his clothes on and makes for the door.

“Ah, don’t forget - later today?”Aziraphale asks, voice full of… something.Hope?Fear?Who the fuck knows, certainly not Crowley, he’s focused too hard on attempting to *walk* at the moment, fucked out as he is.

“Right, Globe, later.See you there, angel.”Grateful for his usual spineless walk that hides this newer more aching spineless walk, Crowley takes his leave.


	3. The First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Ritz. Confessions are made without words; they aren't needed.
> 
> Rating: G

They leave the Ritz on the first day of the rest of their lives. It's early twilight, they don't have the Bentley, the walk is slow and leisurely as they make their way back to Soho, back to the bookshop that is still there, that isn't burnt, that isn't gone just like they aren't gone.

Along the way their shoulders bump, their fingers brush against each other. Keeps happening, unintentionally they'll say, though who they're convincing is a mystery. At some point, and neither knows who did, one of them will curl a finger around the other's as their hands brush past each other.

Aziraphale watches Crowley from the periphery, looking for any signs of unease of uncertainty, finds him staring ahead blankly. He looks away. Crowley watches Aziraphale from the periphery, eyes hidden by the cages on his Valentino's. He sees a flush rise in the angel's cheeks. A dust of pink on his cheeks, the tips of his ears. A small smile on his face. Crowley's heart aches and he _knows_. He _knows_ Aziraphale has caught up with him, but he won't press, won't go faster. This is enough. This is good.

Their fingers entwine completely.

They make it to the bookshop, Aziraphale invites him in. He declines, not wanting to overstay this newfound welcome. Not wanting to take more than he is allowed. Aziraphale keeps their fingers entwined as he climbs the two small steps. He turns, and leans in. The kiss is a surprise. It's just a chaste press of lips, but it lingers. It's a long and drawn out thing. It holds six millennia of things unsaid.

After what feels like decades, Aziraphale pulls back. Crowley can still feel Aziraphale's breath against his lips as the angel pulls back slowly. Crowley doesn't open his eyes. He's rooted to the spot, dumbstruck. In a complete state of wonder as he feels Aziraphale's love wash over him. He opens his eyes slowly, sees Aziraphale smiling at him. Sees his entire world fall into place.

He leans in and kisses Aziraphale again.


	4. Laugh Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Tadfield Airbase, Aziraphale takes a moment of appreciation.
> 
> Rating: G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this Tumblr post](https://tsilvy.tumblr.com/post/622766504183742464/it-took-me-yet-another-watch-to-nail-down-this).

"That's not _really_ his father?"

"It is. It is now, and it always has been."

Aziraphale watches. Watches Crowley smile like the cat that got the cream. And what an understatement that is, given the deeds of the day. It's so rare to see Crowley like this. Open, unguarded, vulnerable. They have a bit of time yet.

Crowley watches Adam's Earthly Father (real father, always has been) usher the boy in to the car. Aziraphale watches Crowley watching. A small and knowing smile spreads across Aziraphale's features, a simmering pride for Crowley's bravery.

He's tired, Aziraphale can see that clearly. His coat is singed, his breathing is heavy, despite not being needed. His knuckles are white where he grips the tire iron. Crowley did so much today, So much for the world and for _them_. Drove through fire, stopped time. Is it any wonder Azirpahale stares?

Stares at the crinkles in the corner of Crowley's eyes, just visible at the edge of his glasses. The lines at the corners of his mouth, the way his lips stretch over his teeth as he smiles so big that it lights up his face. A mix there, on the demon's features. Tired and ecstatic. And Azirpahale loves him.

Aziraphale breathes in deep, feeling the flutter in his heart that he's become so accustomed to associating with Crowley. This space here where the demon had snaked his way in, built a home out of it. And, in turn, made a home of the world, of the Earth, for the both of them.

Crowley watches the humans.

Aziraphale watches Crowley.

He loves him, he loves him, he loves him.


	5. Clutterbitch Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few decades away from London, Crowley is shocked at the state of the formerly empty and clean bookshop.
> 
> Rating: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aethelflaed said "work the phrase 'Clutterbitch Angel' into a fic and I blacked out and typed this in the group chat. I have no excuses.

It had been some decades since that fateful day when Crowley had ran Gabriel and Sandalphon off, securing Aziraphale's place on Earth for a little bit longer (even if the angel himself was unaware). His assignments had taken him across the ocean to the Americas for quite some time, and truth be told he was glad to be back. Truth be told, he really hoped Aziraphale had a couple of bottles of something decent.  
  
The chime above the door jingled pleasantly as he opened it, but instead of finding a bustling bookshop full of customers, he found a dusty and dingy place. Books piled at random on random shelves, loose leafs of parchment sticking from between them. A smell hung in the air, somewhat stagnant. Mildewy at most, unpleasant at best. Every inch that could be covered was covered in knicknacks of every kind: candlesticks, snuffboxes, various decanters and vases, any and all brick-a-brack imaginable.  
  
"Ah, Crowley! Nice to see you, dear," Aziraphale said as he appeared from behind the stacks, more books than he should be able to carry supported in his arms. "What on Earth are you gawking at?"  
  
"Clutterbitch."  
  
"Excuse me, _what_?"  
  
"That's what I'm calling this," Crowley gestured to the wide expanse of the bookshop and all the trinkets surrounding him and closing in on all sides. "This is *clutterbitch*, angel."  
  
Aziraphale stared at him for a beat, and then continued on to his destination. "Well, dear boy, if *clutter bitch* is enough to keep the customers out then I suppose I'm on board."


	6. Staring Daggers/Beating Swords Into Ploughshares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The humans have many sayings involving swords.
> 
> Rating: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on the beautiful swordtember art by [nothistoryyet](https://twitter.com/nothistoryyet)!

Staring daggers.

That's one of the phrases the humans use. To pierce someone with a gaze. To feel an anger so whole and consuming that others around you feel it, too. Like a slow knife in the chest. Twisting and turning and tearing. Cutting through muscle and sinew with only a glance.

Crowley never understood that phrase until today, listening to these so-called angels and their bullshit. Listening to them will his angel to die. To perish by fire.

Would that he had a dagger of his own.

* * *

Beating swords into ploughshares.

An old-fashioned saying for an old-fashioned being. Those are, of course, the ones he gravitates to. Peace in the face of danger, in the face of vitriol and adversity.

He was the one who did it first, after all. He can do it now, faced with the hordes of hell. With these festering poxes on the universe who are barely fit to be walked on by his beloved demon. Who would give him this mockery of justice just to watch him dissolve into nothing.

Abhorable. Disgusting.

But Aziraphale can take that ploughshare, fashion it back into a weapon and point it at their throats.

Hell hath no fury like that of Principality on a mission of protection.


	7. At The Edge of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a conversation with God
> 
> Rating: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on the beautiful swordtember art by [nothistoryyet](https://twitter.com/nothistoryyet)!

Aziraphale stands on the edge of the universe, on the edge of all creation.

He stands beside the other angels, beside Heaven. He's confident he chose the right side. Confident that he's done the right thing.

His stomach still lurches as he watches the others fall through the sky, bright orange and yellow as they burn in the atmosphere.

"It just doesn't make sense..." 

He grips the hilt of his sword tightly, he'll need it in the coming days. Reassignment. God's new pet project. He's to protect them, to wield this sword against all who would do them harm. It's an honor and a privilege, and one he takes very seriously.

Doesn't mean he understands this.

"You are troubled, Principality Aziraphale?" Asks a shapeless void of light with a kindly voice just to the left of normal. Just enough to keep one guessing. Just enough to not give away the plot.

"I don't understand, your Grace. They only asked questions."

He watches one in particular, hair aflame in crimson. This one stares back at him as he falls. He's familiar, but the memory is like running water. It slips through his fingers, impossible to hold.

He knows him.

He _knew_ him.

He does not recognize him at all.

"All in due time, Principality. The ineffable plan is thus, and someday it will all make sense. Someday you will both understand. Take care of each other."

He wakes with a start, takes in the surroundings. The wainscoting and the sheer white curtains overlooking the sea. The quilt and the soft bed. The solid yet spindly arms that cling to him.

A dream, that was all, just a dream.

He sighs, reaching over to brush a lock of hair out of Crowley's face as he sleeps, before settling back down into the bed and kissing his husband's forehead.

And if he holds him just a little bit tighter, well, that's just for his own sake.


	8. Fencing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Cortese and Mr. Harrison have a friendly sparring match in the rose garden.
> 
> Rating: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on the beautiful swordtember art by [nothistoryyet](https://twitter.com/nothistoryyet)!

"Do you yield, Mr. Harrison?"

"Never, Mr. Cortese," Crowley says with a smirk, ignoring the fact that they are toe to toe, that Aziraphale could easily overpower him, that he's barely holding his own right now. Their swords* are the only thing that separates them, clashed together. Crowley has no intention of giving in, neither does Aziraphale, and the swords shake slightly where they connect with the force of their wills at odds.

"Well then, I'll have to try just a bit harder."

Aziraphale breaks the tension between blades, parrying Crowley's away and jumping back as he does, already bracing for Crowley's blade as it comes down.

Warlock had lost interest long ago, off to dig in the dirt for Brother Snail or Sister Slug. At least something to keep him entertained.

His tutors haven't noticed yet, too wrapped up in this little game.

With a well placed jab and a sweep of his leg, Aziraphale manages to knock Crowley to the ground. He straddles Crowley's chest, blade as near his throat as he dares.

"Do you _yield_ , Mr. Harrison?"

Despite the fluffy beard on Aziraphale's face, Crowley knows that bastard smile when he sees it. Knows the exact curve of it, no matter what. He smirks back in kind, relaxing back into the grass.

"And what's in it for me if I do? Demon, you know, big fan of deals."

Aziraphale leans in, barely a hairsbreadth away from Crowley's ear. "I'm sure we can work out the particulars later, perhaps over wine at the shop. I do believe we could come to some sort of agreement."

Crowley, pink-cheeked and full of anticipation, accepts his defeat with grace and humility.

* * *

*-Fencing ones, regrettably, but by virtue of the game they are far sturdier than they should be. Bit of imagination and all that.


	9. He Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley meets a bright and shining angel
> 
> Rating: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on the beautiful swordtember art by [nothistoryyet](https://twitter.com/nothistoryyet)!

_He knows._

He knows the ways of Heaven, knows how they worm their way in. How they take the concepts of love and acceptance and twist them into some wicked and horrid thing, grasping and pulling and choking.

_He knows._

He knows the propaganda, knows the party lines, knows all of it well before he slithers up into Eden. Before he crawled out of the sulfur pits on his belly in the dirt. Before his shining white wings were burnt black.

_He knows._

He remembers, there, amongst the stars. Remembers the rumors, remembers when he started to doubt. Started to doubt the intentions, the plan itself, so many things. He remembers when he asked questions.

_He watches._

This angel, this new being who fell into his life unexpectedly. This one who is so very, very different. Who shows care and compassion. Who holds a wing over him in the first storm. Who ignores the inherent distrust that comes from being near a demon, and in the name of something so simple as kindness.

_He watches._

He watches the angel doubt, in a flood and in front of a cross. Watches him enjoy things, integrate with the humans and become more human himself. He watches this angel settle in among his charges. Principalities were made to protect.

_He waits._

He shares oysters with him in Rome and he waits. Attends the debates at the symposiums and he waits. He circles back again and again, a synchronous orbit around this one singularity. This one being. His equal and his other half, he's sure. But still despite all of this...

_He knows._

He knows how Heaven's machine works. Knows how the twist things like duty and honor, make them into blunt instruments to be used against their own without any of Her so-called mercy. Knows that this soft and fussy angel will drown in it someday, and he knows he'll be there to pull him out of the maelstrom.

_He knows._

He knows that beyond anything else, he is in love, and that this angel is worth it. Is worth the orbit, worth the wait, and worth the time. He's different, this Aziraphale. The other side of his coin, so similar and yet so different. And if there is one thing that Crowley has been able to say for himself since that fateful day on a wall in Eden.

_He knows._

He knows that he is in love.

And he knows that someday Aziraphale will breach the surface.

And when that day comes, he'll offer his hand.

And with any luck, they'll step out into the light on the shore. 


	10. Clasp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale fixes the clasp on Crowley's chain.
> 
> Rating: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written based on [this beautiful comic](https://sungmee.tumblr.com/post/633813795943464960/the-inherent-intimacy-of-fixing-the-others) by my good friend doorwaytoparadise <3

"Ah, my dear, you've got... here, let me just-"

And suddenly Aziraphale's hand is on his chest, sliding slowly under his deep green coat. Crowley's breath catches and his heart stops as Aziraphale traces up his long silver chain, careful and calloused fingers alighting on the clasp that has somehow worked it's way around to the front.

Gentle hands slowly pull and turn, bringing that clasp back around until it's even with his spine again. Crowley tries not to think about how close Aziraphale is right now, how his arms are around his neck, how his gaze is soft and open.

Purely utilitarian, nothing there at all. The clasp is where it should be now, and the moment will be over soon enough.

But Aziraphale lingers there, fingers barely brushing the back of Crowley's neck, fluttering and hesitant. It would be nothing for Aziraphale to twine his fingers in Crowley's hair, they practically are already, and Crowley's breath is refusing to return.

There's a look in Aziraphale's eyes, one he hasn't seen there before. One that he's seen in other faces, other people - but never the right face, never the right being, until this moment.

There's a very human thing that happens when you know you're about to be kissed. Time slows of its own accord, palms become sweaty. One's tongue gains a mind of its own, darts out to wet lips in anticipation of what is coming next. The heart rate increases as the butterflies fill one's stomach and the nerves and the need fight with each other, at a war for an individual's senses.

It's an extremely human reaction, and Crowley isn't sure what to do with it.

A smile spreads across Aziraphale's face, one of confidence and firm decisions. He pulls Crowley in, hands firm on the back of his neck, grounding him in place, grounding him to the moment.

It happens slowly, it happens too fast, but it happens all the same. Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley's and everything in the world suddenly falls into place.

Armageddon, the boy, the coming end of the Earth - none of that matters right now, in this moment. Because now Crowley knows - knows how warm Aziraphale's lips are, knows that he tastes of Earl Grey and the vanilla shortbread he had at the cafe earlier. There's a tiny whine that sounds like want that escapes Aziraphale when he kisses him, like he wants to ask for more but would be content with just this.

And that won't do, so Crowley wraps his arms around him and kisses him back.


	11. Precipitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cycle of rain has been the same since the Earth began.
> 
> Rating: G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt "In the rain".

Precipitation.A product of condensed water vapor in the clouds.It builds and builds until gravity has its way.

Gravity always has its way, in the end.

Rain is precipitation.Was the first of its kind.The clouds above Eden had built, grown heavy and gray, before splitting and raining upon the Earth.Crowley remembers how it felt on his skin, soaking into his hair.How his robes had clung to him and his feathers had weighed heavy.He also remembers white wings, pristine and shining, enveloping him in a canopy of iridescent feathers.A gesture, small and unknowing, given freely from a being with kind eyes and a kinder smile, and just a bit of a reckless streak.A shining beacon in a dark storm, head tilted up to the clouds, water streaming down his face.A vision, written in vapor, condensed into Crowley’s memories.

And it builds, and it builds…

Through the early days of humanity, in flood waters and scorching dryness.Through the salt-sea air in Rome to the damp moors of Wessex.Water, condensation, fucking _weather_ all the time.And through it all, Aziraphale was there.And every time, Crowley would collect the memory, hold it deep and safe inside his storm cloud heart.

Building…building…

It was raining the day the bookshop burned, flames climbing and licking into the air.Ink and paper and old rough-hewn wood; everything that ever mattered to Aziraphale, burning in the fire as the clouds broke open above.

Some say that rain is God’s tears.Crowley knows better.

Now, he stares up to the clouds.Mimics the movements of the bright and shining angel.Lets the water run down his face in this new world.It soaks into his hair and through his jacket.He closes his eyes, feels each and every drop hit his skin.Hears each one that hits the pavement around him.He loses himself in this symphony.Vapor, condensation, and falling.A cycle repeating over and over.

Abruptly, the rain stops.Crowley opens his eyes, sees stark black nylon above his head.There’s a warm arm that wraps around his waist.There are soft lips pressing a kiss to his cheek.

But most of all, there’s a soft voice in his ear, _come on darling, let’s go home._


	12. Cara Mia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harriet can't figure out who invited the nanny and the gardener to their party.
> 
> Rating: G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for Naniiebim's lovely Adam's Family Halloween [art](https://naniiebimworks.tumblr.com/post/633163369113845760/aziraphale-and-crowley-in-morticia-and-gomez). <3

“Can you explain to me _why_ exactly you invited the nanny and the gardener to our Halloween party?”

“I thought you invited them, why would I invite them?”

It’s Halloween at the Dowling estate; Harriet is throwing her annual get-together for various politicians, celebrities, and the general upper-crust of society. It’s a farce, because of course it is. She doesn’t even _like_ these people, but she still has to perform for them.

Somehow, and she’s really not sure, Warlock’s nanny and the bucktooth gardener had made their way into the costume party. Their costumes were good, she’d give them that. Morticia and Gomez, fitting for them somehow. Ashtoreth is in a full length black gown, it doesn’t look like she should be able to even _walk_ much less sneak into garden parties. Her red hair is ridiculously long. Francis is…ostensibly dressed as Gomez, at any rate. His suit is very pale, cream and beige instead of Gomez’s typical black. But the thin pencil mustache and exaggerated coif to his hair are unmistakably Gomez, even if it’s the pastel version.

Unfortunately for Harriet, they’re making a spectacle of themselves, earning hushed whispers from the other party guests. But every time she tries to approach them to tell them to knock it off, she finds herself distracted and moving somewhere else.

Not this time, now she was sure they had snuck in. She hands her champagne flute to a passing waiter, starts her march towards where they stand near the rosebushes, completely wrapped up and enamored with each other. Yes, the Addams, beyond fitting. At least this would settle the betting pools among the house staff.

“Ah my dear devilish demon, _cara mia,_ ” She can hear Francis from here, expounding in all manner of languages as he kisses Ashtoreth’s hand, continuing the kisses up her arm as Ashtoreth practically _glows._ Harriet slows her steps, listening in.

“Hmmm…do you remember when we met? It was a place much like this, magic in the air. An angel…” Ashtoreth smiles with too many teeth.

“…A demon,” Francis finishes. Must be odd pet names or something.

“There in the garden, on that first day.”

“You were so beautiful. Pale and mysterious. I barely even noticed the apples.”

“Oh, Francis,” Ashtoreth says with a giggle, “I’m so glad we were able to get out tonight.”

“Yes, my darling…” Francis sounds… sad? Which given the circumstances is odd. He continues, “…to live without you…only that would be torture.”

Ashtoreth smiles at him, cups his cheek, “A day alone, only that would be death…”

Harriet is frozen in her tracks as Ashtoreth’s eyes meet hers over the rim of her sunglasses; acrid yellow with suggestions. Harriet turns on her heel and heads back into the main event of the party, suddenly thinking it is a shame she hasn’t danced with Thaddeus like they used to. Before his appointment, before Warlock, before life got a bit too real.

Harriet pulls her husband to the dance floor, they hold each other tight and sway.

Harriet forgets all about the nanny and the gardener.


	13. Oranges and Clove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a game people play, with oranges and cloves.
> 
> Rating: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Hapax in the DIWS discord server mentioned a game involving cloved oranges, where one person gives the orange to a person they want to kiss and that person takes a clove from the orange and indicates where they would be ok being kissed. So naturally, my brain went nyoom xD

"It's a bit of an odd game they've come up with," Aziraphale says as he turns the orange over in his hands, the bright smells of clove and citrus weighing heavy in the air of the bookshop.

"Is it now?"

"Yes, you take this orange and give it to someone, they remove a clove and then... well... based on how they remove it, the one who gave it to them gives them a kiss." Crowley squints at Aziraphale, taking in the slight tremor to his hand, the nervous twitch of his smile as he holds the orange out towards him. A game then, is it?

Let it never be said the demon isn't game. "A game then, hmm?" He takes the orange from Aziraphale, calculates his next move. It would be so easy to nip one of the cloves with his teeth, to crack it between incisors with intent. But Aziraphale had called him too fast once.

He pinches a clove between his fingers, tries not to notice how Aziraphale's shoulders deflate ever so slightly before the angel takes his hand. Before Aziraphale pulls Crowley's hand to his mouth and lays the softest and gentlest kiss Crowley has ever known to his knuckles. There's meaning and purpose in it, meaning and intent conveyed on this simple press of lips.

Aziraphale moves to pull away, but Crowley grips his hand. "Your turn, angel," Crowley whispers on shaky breath, lifting the orange between them. An offer, if Aziraphale accepts it.

"It's bad luck, they say...to pass it to the same person..." Aziraphale says hurriedly, but licks his lips anyway.

"No one else here," Crowley says with a raise of his eyebrow, offering fruit and temptation, just as he did so many centuries ago.

Aziraphale takes the orange from him, all shaky fingers and fluttering eyelashes. He breathes in deep, looks Crowley directly in the eye as he carefully pulls a clove out with his teeth. He cracks it between his incisors with intent.

Crowley doesn't need to be asked twice, he lunges in and kisses Aziraphale, tasting clove and citrus on the angel's breath. Aziraphale kisses back, game forgotten.

The orange falls to the ground, rolls away somewhere for them to find later. For now, they have each other, and finally - _finally_ \- it's time to leave the garden.


End file.
